when things go wrong we can knock it down
by leapylion3
Summary: She comes to the Wall late one night, when the winds are blowing hard and nipping at your cheeks, and when the snows are falling fast and blocking your view until you can't see more than two feet in front of you. She calls herself Satine, claims she's eighteen, and says she's from Oldtown. How is Jon supposed to let a woman stay at the Wall? genderbent: fem!Satin


A project that's been in the works for awhile now. Finally got around to finishing it!

Enjoy! xoxo

* * *

She comes to the Wall late one night, when the winds are blowing hard and nipping at your cheeks, and when the snows are falling fast and blocking your view until you can't see more than two feet in front of you. _Not a good time to be traveling_, Jon thinks, and he wonders why she was out so late. He's suspicious of the lateness, and also, why a pretty young woman such as herself would be travelling alone.

She calls herself Satine, claims she's eighteen, and says she's from Oldtown. She wears a thick cloak that's much too big for her, and her dark curls are pulled back in a bun. She's very comely, he notes, even in men's breeches and a tunic.

Jon suspects there's something more that she's not telling him, but he doesn't press further. They'll have time for questions in the morn. "You're welcome to stay for the night, but I'm afraid I can't offer you protection," Lord Commander Snow tells her.

Unblinking, her face a blank mask, she shoots back, "I thought the Night's Watch was a protection service to the Realm, my lord."

He looks her up and down, surprised by her boldness, although he doesn't show it. "That's different from being a personal guard." He sighs a little. "I'll have someone show you to your chambers."

Stiffly, she curtsies. "Thank you, my lord. And I apologize if I offended you." He pardons her, and she curtsies again, avoiding his gaze. Dolorous Edd shows her to her chambers, the door clicking shut behind them.

* * *

He doesn't see her again that night, nor does she come down for breakfast in the morn. He considers sending Edd or one of the other stewards to get her, but he think that would be too imposing. After all, she just arrived after a long journey- she needs some rest.

Eventually, Jon gets tired of waiting around for her to appear. He abandons his paperwork- a rare thing of him to do- and he goes to her chambers. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on her door- quietly, since he does not want to wake her or disturb her.

"My lady," he calls, "it's Lord Commander Snow. May I come in?"

"Of course, my lord," she replies instantly, her voice soft as silk. "It's open." He pushes the door open and is struck dumb by what he sees. The young woman is in the sheerest nightgown he's ever seen, and is not even embarrassed to give him a curtsy. He flushes at her cleavage, his hands twitching at his sides.

"Is something wrong, my lord?" She cocks her head to the side after he has not spoken for a few moments, noting his obvious discomfort. He tries not to think of the way he can see her breasts under the thin material as clear as day, and he goes to sit down, knowing his knees would give way if he stares any longer.

"You weren't at breakfast today," he manages to croak out. "I-I just want to see if you were alright."

"I'm fine, thank you, my lord. I just slept in, is all." Satine picks up her hairbrush and begins to comb through her dark locks. Jon realizes how long her hair is, and he has the sudden urge to run his fingers through it. "I can't thank you enough for letting me stay."

He licks his lips nervously, trying to keep his eyes anywhere but on her. And _gods_ it's difficult, considering she just turned around to look at herself in the mirror, and he has a perfect view of her arse and her smooth backside. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions, my lady." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, feeling himself half-hard already.

"I'm not a lady," she says simply. "And you may ask me what you wish, although I may not answer them all."

"And why is that?"

She flashes him a smile over her shoulder. "Some things are better left unsaid, my lord." She turns back to the vanity, humming tunelessly to herself.

He eyes her suspiciously, his gaze locking with hers in the mirror. "Something to hide, my lady?" he questions, ignoring her previous remark about her status.

"Perhaps I just don't want to tell a complete stranger," she retorts, setting down the brush.

"Surely you'd expect to be questioned when you decided to come to the Wall?"

"Mayhaps, Lord Snow, I wasn't _thinking _when I came here." She whips around and glares at him. "Mayhaps I just wanted to get away. Leave it all behind." She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. "You can't really think when it's a matter of life or death," she concludes, her composure returning.

"Were you to be executed?" Jon asks, slightly surprised that a young, seemingly innocent woman would commit a crime punishable by death.

"I would be dead by now," Satine declares softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "It felt like death, sometimes," she whispers, her dark eyes fixed on the wooden floor. "I wished I would die instead."

"Why did you come _here_, specifically?" he asks, his voice lowering. He feels sympathy and pity towards the girl, despite having barely spoken to her.

"I barely had any coin; I couldn't go across the Narrow Sea or move to another town."

"We're not a charity."

"And I'm not a charity case, Lord Snow." She sighs and ties her hair back into a messy plait. "I could help out in the kitchens. Or with the horses." She shrugs a shoulder. "I'm aware that the Wall is no place for a woman. I am also aware that you have your doubts about me."

He can't let her stay. Having a woman on the Wall- where the men had taken celibacy vows- would not be the best idea. Especially not one as pretty as her. _And __**especially**__ not if she continues to wear those damned thin, skin tight dresses_, Jon bitterly reminds himself, his cock twitching when he gets a glimpse of her milky thighs.

Her staying here would not be a good thing. He remembers last time he had cared for a woman, the last time he had been with one. He feels a familiar pang in his chest as he recalls her wild fiery hair, her freckles, her joyous laugh. Another woman in his life would not be a good idea.

He doesn't know why he tells her she can stay for as long as she wishes.

* * *

Satine gets along well enough with all the men. Of course, Jon had made several threats concerning her, involving a vivid description of what their punishment would be if he caught them taking advantage of her. The men hadn't looked at him or Ghost the same way ever since.

The food has been much better since she arrived, so the men don't mind having her here. She also helps Jon with some of his work, and keeps him company. Ghost has taken a liking to her, as well, which was a bit of a shock, since Ghost doesn't seem to like anyone these days.

As much as they talk, they don't talk much about_ her_. He knows next to nothing about her, apart from that she loves to ride horses, and her favourite food is strawberries. He attempts to sneak in a few questions here and there, but she dodges them with ease.

They come back from a ride in the forest on a bright and fresh day, their cheeks rosy and their noses tinted red. A light snow is beginning to fall, which elicits breathless laughter from Satine; she had never seen snow before coming up North. She loves the snowfall- he sees a childish delight on her face that he never sees at any other time. Jon decides he likes the way the snowflakes fall onto her curly hair and melt in the locks, and he loves the way she laughs and beams when she dances around the courtyard, her skirts twirling around her. The lads from the training session stop their sparring to look at the girl, with her flushed cheeks and wide eyes. They're used to it by now, however, and look away a few moments later.

Satine accompanies him to the stables and she helps him put them away. "Thank you," she breathes, staring up at him, "for today. It was lovely."

Jon feels shy now, and he's not sure why. "You're welcome. I know how long it's been since we last went riding." She smiles at him and feeds her horse an apple, her chapped lips pressed tightly together.

"I enjoy spending time with you, my lord," she admits, wiping her hand on her skirts after the horse licks it.

"As do I."

"I haven't been...completely open with you." She keeps her eyes away from him, watching the snow fall from outside the small window in the stables. "Can I tell you something?" Her voice is so tiny and soft, a contrast from her usual tones.

"Anything, my lady." He closes the door to his horse's stall.

"I was a whore. I hated it. I would have killed myself if I had to stay there any longer." She shrugs a shoulder. "That's why I came here." He's surprised at this confession, for she seems as learned and composed as a noble lady. He has so many questions floating around in his brain, but asks none.

"Thank you for telling me," he says instead. She gives him a ghost of a smile and brushes past him, muttering her courtesies. It's all he sees of her for the rest of the day.

* * *

Satine has taken an interest to training and sparring, just like all the other men. She thinks herself to be an honorary member of the Watch, which amuses Jon greatly. She's been here for a bit more than two moons, and she claims that it's high time she took her vows.

The two had gotten over their awkward conversation from a few days past. In truth, Jon did not care that she had been a whore; many of the Watchmen had been whores, as well. Up here, they were new and different people. They were a family, and family stuck together through thick and thin.

Jon hears loud cursing and stomping, so he goes to inspect. He knows that the lads aren't out training at this time, and that fact only peaks his curiosity more. As he approaches, the voice becomes distinct, familiar and...feminine, he notes with a smile. Count on Satine to curse more than any of the men here.

"Something troubling you, my lady?" he teases, walking up to her. She looks up from her bow and arrow quiver, and her frustration immediately subsides, a ghost of a smile finding its way onto her full lips.

"I was trying to shoot, but I can only ever hit the outside ring."

He takes a quick peek at the target, which has been brutally attacked by Satine's arrows. And, true to her word, they are all at the edge of the target. "Would you like me to help you?"

She smiles coyly. "Please." She strings another arrow into the bow and positions herself accordingly, tossing her long curly hair out of her face.

"Well you can string an arrow, at least." Lord Commander Snow smirks after examining her stance. The girl sticks her tongue out at him, her brow furrowing. He laughs and takes a couple more steps towards her. He sticks a boot in between her feet, nudging her legs apart. "Your stance has to be steady, and your balance is key. Your weight should be spread out evenly." He puts his hands on her hips, steadying her. She rocks her hips a little against his, his cock twitching as her arse rubs against his groin. He bites back a groan, and is able to feel warmth even under their layers and layers of wools and leathers and furs.

His hands instinctively clutch at her waist as she presses even closer against him, her breath hot against his neck. "My, aren't we touchy, Lord Snow?" she drawls. He flushes and removes his hands quickly, as if he'd been burnt. "My lord, come back," she coos after he takes a step away from her. "I rather liked it." She flashes him a wicked grin over her shoulder. Snow's cheeks become an even brighter red, heat spreading down his neck and up his ears. She sighs and loses the position, her arms sagging. "Show me." The former whore pouts, and Jon finds himself unable to look away from her full lips.

"Alright," the Lord Commander finally relents, nodding his head furiously. To his surprise, she hands him the bow, her expression expectant. "I thought-"

She takes a few steps back to give him enough space. "I'm more of a visual learner, my lord." He doesn't miss the suggestive tone in her voice, nor does he miss the hint of a smirk. Snow shrugs and hoists up the bow, squinting one eye to aim. He releases the arrow and, with a solid _thwack_, it lodges itself into the center of the target.

Satine grins at him when he passes the bow back to her. "Does your arrow always hit its target, my lord?" she purrs, her voice lowering. Jon squeaks out something incoherent and unintelligible, distancing himself from her. She laughs loudly, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners in the way that he always liked.

"You try," he orders, ignoring her statement. He shoves the bow back into her hand and pulls an arrow out from the quiver slung across her back. Satine grumbles something about pushy lordlings, but strings the arrow nonetheless. She shuts one eye as he had done, her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on the target. She pulls back and releases-

"Ow, _fuck_! Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!"

It takes Jon a moment to realize that she's hurt. He rushes over to her, hissing when she drops the bow and quiver on his feet. Blood gushes from her forefinger, staining the white snow at their feet a dark red.

"What happened?" he demands, holding her injured hand in his gloved ones. She doesn't have to respond; he sees half of her fingernail is torn off. "I'm taking you to the maester."

"It's fine-"

"No, it's not. Look at it!" The blood seeps into his gloves, and he can feel the warmth and the stickiness, but he doesn't care right now. "You're losing a lot of blood right now and-"

"_Look_!" She grins and points to the target with her other hand: _bullseye_.

* * *

Jon's not entirely surprised when Satine follows him into his chambers at night. It's absolutely freezing, and even the furs won't suffice. A lot of the men huddle together for warmth, so Snow pretends that Satine is no one different. He used to share his furs with his brothers and sisters back when they were children, and that's exactly what this is. Nothing more.

He kicks off his boots and turns around to hang up his cloak. When he looks back over his shoulder, he feels heat spread all over his body, and he's certain his face is as red as the lipstick Satine wears now. "W-what are you d-doing?" he stammers, trying to look anywhere but her. Her breeches join her tunic on the floor, and she's standing only in her corset and smallclothes, completely unabashed.

"We won't get warm any way else," she responds nonchalantly, tossing her hair over her shoulders. She pulls the furs back from the bed and crawls under, visibly shaking. Ghost happily joins her on the bed, darting out his tongue to lick her face.

"I don't think-"

"Calm down, my lord." She shoves Ghost away and wipes a hand over her face, grimacing. "I'm not going to fuck you or anything." His face gets impossibly redder, his movements stiff as he shuffles over to the bed. She smiles reassuringly at him, her voice softening. "I don't bite."

Hesitantly, he sheds his clothing and joins her in the bed, pulling the furs up to his chin. Satine moves closer to Jon, her teeth chattering. Ghost lies down at their feet, resting his chin on his paws, making it impossible for the two to move away from each other.

The Lord Commander inwardly curses and screws his eyes shut, trying not to think of the pretty young woman lying next to him. He tries not to think of the way her lips are parted as she takes shallow breaths, tries not to think of the smooth skin of her shoulder peeking out from under the furs.

"Have you ever even _been_ with a woman before?" she asks quietly, her warm sweet breath tickling his cheek.

"Of course I have," he retorts, harsher than he intended. He opens one eye and finds Satine staring at him, her expression quizzical.

"You make it hard to believe," she admits, pulling the furs higher. He quirks up an eyebrow at her, silently urging her to explain. "You act as if women are a foreign people."

"You are up here. The Wall isn't exactly the most common place for women."

She sighs. "Point taken. Although I can't help but feel as if you're afraid of me." He frowns at that.

Jon closes his other eye. "Just go to sleep." He can practically see the roll of her eyes. He feels her shifting, the bare skin of her legs brushing up against his. She moves a bit closer, her hair splayed across his chest and the pillows. He clenches his jaw tightly and turns away, his back to her. He regrets it instantly, for he feels the chill air.

Judging by Satine's slower breaths, she's already asleep. However, even in her sleep, she plays the role of the seductress perfectly. Her foot moves and hooks with his, their ankles grazing against each other. She shifts again, the skin of her thigh now pressing against his lower back. He bites back a moan, relishing in the warmth.

"Jon," she murmurs a short while later. One hand finds his shoulder, and the other cards through his hair. Only then does Jon realize that he's hard as stone. "Come back. It's bloody freezing," she yawns, her voice groggy. Snow feigns sleep, and he hears her sigh. She buries her face in the back of his neck and wraps her arms around his chest. He wants to push her away- he _should_ push her away- but _gods _she's warm, and it's been such a long time since he's been warm.

He decides he likes the way her breath caresses his neck, likes how it fills him with excitement of sorts, how it makes goosebumps rise on his skin, how a thrill bolts through him every time she inhales or exhales. Her breasts are pressed against his back, her legs intertwined with his, and he blushes fiercely. This is wrong, he knows. They may not be _doing_ anything, but one thing could lead to another and-

Satine makes a sound in her sleep, a half-sigh, half-moan, which only manages to fill Jon's head with even dirtier thoughts. She makes the sound again- quieter this time- and he's aware of how close she is. Her lips are almost touching his ear, and her arms are still wrapped around his chest, preventing him from leaving her side.

He knows he won't be getting any sleep that night.

* * *

Satine follows him to his chambers the next night, and it's just as cold as the last. There's something...different about her, however subtle. A change in her step, perhaps, or the way she carries herself. He's not sure how she could have changed in a matter of a few hours, but the thought frightens him somehow.

Jon pulls his gloves off and unlocks the door. He holds it open for Satine, letting her go in first. "My, what a gentleman." She rewards him with a sultry smile and slips past him, her cloak falling off her shoulders. She hangs it up and Jon closes the door behind them, absently scratching Ghost's ears. Snow shoves the gloves back into his pocket and the direwolf trots over to the hearth, plopping himself down in front of the flames.

"Would you like a drink?" Jon asks her, hanging his cloak up. The former whore walks up to him, watching him with dark sparkling eyes. He finds it hard to stop babbling when she's looking up at him like that, and when she's wearing that lovely purple dress of hers that shows just the right amount of cleavage. "I could make spiced wine, if you'd like. I know-"

"You really should use that pretty mouth of yours for better things than talking."

Before he can respond, her lips are on his, and he finds himself frozen in his place. His hands are clenched at his sides, and he remains unable to make the slightest movement, so he cannot push her away, or kiss her back- at this point, he's not sure which option he would pick. She doesn't back away and take his lack of response as a sign of disinterest, however; in the few months he's known her, he's learned that she's determined to get her way, whatever the case.

"I think we can do better than that," Satine murmurs, and Jon can hear the smirk in her voice. She drags her lips along his jaw line, gently nipping and sucking at the skin there. He chokes out a moan, half of him wanting this to continue, while the other half protests, since that half is the only one that seems to remember his vows.

He's already broken them once, and that's more than enough. He puts his hands on her waist, ready to push her away, but_ gods_ she's found that spot behind his ear, and _fuck_ he can feel her deft fingers unlacing his breeches, which have grown highly constricting.

He's already broken his vows once, so another time really won't make a difference.

His breeches fall to his ankles, and Jon groans loudly when her fingers slip into his smallclothes and wrap around his cock. "My lord, what trouble we would be in if someone heard you," she teases, but he doesn't have time for her teasing now. Not when she's stroking him at an agonizingly slow pace, not when he wants nothing more than to press her up against the wall and fuck her senseless. He crushes his lips to hers, pulling her even closer by the waist and he kicks his boots off.

She tugs off his smallclothes and they join his breeches on the floor, around his ankles. Satine pulls away a moment later, eliciting a small whine from the Lord Commander. He's instantly rewarded with more of her touch when she sinks to her knees and takes him in her mouth.

His fingers tangle in her long curls, clutching onto her and holding her close. His head is swimming and he feels his eyes roll back in pleasure. He knows why men paid so much to have her, even for a few mere hours.

She uses her clever tongue and hot, wet mouth to push him over the edge in only a few minutes, and he can't help but feel like nothing more than a young green lad. He knows that even Satine is a bit surprised, making a small noise in the back of her throat. Nevertheless, she swallows every last drop of his seed and releases him with a rather obscene noise- in Jon's mind, at least, since he still thinks that all of _this_ is obscene. He feels heat begin to coil in the pit of his stomach once more when he sees her pink tongue dart out to lick her lips. He hears his heart pounding loudly in his ears as she kisses her way up his body, unbuttoning and pulling off his jerkin and tunic along the way.

He steps out of his breeches and smallclothes and pulls her to him, once she's standing up again. He kisses her, and he tastes himself on her lips and tongue. He doesn't mind; instead, he deepens the kiss and hoists her up, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist and he carries them over to the bed.

Warning bells go off in his head. He swears he hears voices in his head, telling him that this is wrong and he should stop. All those thoughts are tuned out when she pulls off her dress, and _fuck _she's not wearing anything underneath.

Satine pins him to the bed with a surprising amount of strength for her petite frame. He feels her hot center on his stomach when she straddles him, and he groans at the contact. She captures his lips in a heated kiss, their tongues exploring each others' mouths.

She breaks off the kiss, making Jon utter a small whine of protest, one he'd surely be embarrassed about if he wasn't this far gone. She smiles a little and presses her lips to his forehead. She shimmies up his body, a knee on either side of his head, hovering just above him. He hears a faint "Jon, please" and he's a bit surprised that she's this wet despite having barely touched her. Nonetheless, he's eager to oblige. Hooking his arms under her knees, he pulls her to him.

She moans and whimpers as he presses open-mouthed kisses to her cunt, licking and sucking at her centre. A feeling of pride swells up inside him, due to the fact that he can pull these delicious noises from her and make her feel this good.

He flicks the pleasure nub with his tongue, which makes her shudder above him. He can't help but take a peek at her, and he knows he'll never forget how she looks; eyes closed, forehead painted with sweat, mussed up hair, parted lips.

He flicks the nub again, then wraps his lips around it, gently sucking. He crooks a finger inside her, then another. His jaw burns with a wonderful ache, but that's the last thing on his mind now. He can't focus on anything else than isn't _her_.

He curls his tongue around the nub and gently works the bundle of nerves with blunt teeth. She cries out, her thighs clenching around his ears. She bites her hand hard to muffle the sounds as she comes, shuddering and trembling above him.

Softly panting, Satine crawls off of him and lies down next to him. Jon wraps an arm around her waist and nuzzles her neck, planting feather-light kisses on her shoulders and collarbone. Her fingers tangle in his hair and keep him close.

"I had wondered," she breathes, a hint of a laugh in her voice. "You _have_ done this before. You weren't lying."

"You wondered about me kissing your cunt?" he teases, nipping at the soft flesh of her neck. He sucks at the spot, marking it with a light red, silently claiming her for himself.

She chuckles, her fingers lazily running through his hair. "Don't be modest- you have such a pretty mouth, Lord Snow. You shouldn't be surprised." He smiles against her neck and pecks the red mark he made. He feels her shivering against him, so he pulls the furs over them and brings her even closer to him.

"How are you still so cold?" he murmurs, rubbing her arms up and down when she doesn't stop trembling.

"You can warm me up some other way." She bats her eyelashes at him. He purses his lips and tries to keep from frowning, but judging from the disappointed look on her face, the resistance is futile. What they just did was wrong. He couldn't lead her on like this. He's Lord Commander; he has an example to set, and it would be hell if they were caught.

She turns away from him and curls up on her side. "Just go to sleep, then." Jon can tell that she tries to keep the hurt out of her voice, but he can hear it anyway.

He wraps his arms around her waist and keeps his chest pressed against her back. "Goodnight, Satine," he whispers into her hair.

She doesn't respond.

* * *

Jon awakes in the early- ungodly, Pyp would call it- hours of the morning, when the sun is just beginning to peak over the hilltops. He opens his eyes, one at a time, and sees Satine's sleeping figure in his arms. Her back is towards him, and he remembers their disaccord last night.

He can't tell if she's sleeping or not, but he doesn't want to disturb her. His arms are around her waist, so any hope of moving is out of the question. He closes his eyes once more, forced to wait until she wakes up.

She stirs a few minutes later, her hair tickling Jon's nose. He smiles a little and leans over to press a kiss to her cheek. He's not sure if she's forgiven him yet, but he knows enough to not bring up last night's events.

"Good morning," he murmurs once he sees that her eyes are open. He noses her soft curls, then presses a kiss behind her ear.

She smiles tiredly. "Good morning." She covers her mouth with her hand and yawns. She shifts onto her back to look at him, his arm still wrapped around her waist. "I should still be mad at you."

He raises his eyebrows a little. "_Should_ be?"

Satine bites back her smile. "It's hard to stay mad at you." She brings a hand to the back of his head and pulls him down for a kiss.

They kiss for what seems like hours, her mouth gently moving against his. Their movements are lazy, at ease, and Jon tries to think of the last time he's felt this relaxed. He imagines that they are at Winterfell, with his family in their respective beds throughout the castle. He imagines that the only vows made were those of marriage. The fantasy seems within his grasp, and if he squeezes his eyes shut, he can pretend it's real, if only for this moment.

His hand moves on its own accord, rubbing soothing circles over the soft pale skin of Satine's stomach. In his mind, they are in Winterfell, with a babe in her belly- _his_ babe.

Satine whimpers and ducks her head when his hands trace her sides. "What's wrong?" he asks, freezing in place. He feels raised welts under his fingertips, white and red scars, yellowing bruises. "Who did this to you?" he demands, deathly quiet. He puts his hand under her chin and forces her to look at him. "Was it any of the men? Satine, tell me if it was, and I swear-"

"It wasn't any of the men," she assures him, her eyes wide with what Jon suspects is fear. "I promise it wasn't. These are old."

"Who-"

"Unhappy customers." She smiles sadly at him. "They don't stop at anything to get what they want."

He rests his forehead against hers. "I'm so sorry."

"Were you there? Did _you_ do this to me?" She kisses him firmly. "No, you weren't. Then don't you dare apologize." She kisses him again, her hands snaking into his hair. She opens her mouth to him and rolls onto her back, pulling him on top of her.

Jon should stop himself, he knows he should. He took vows, he came here knowing that he would never be with a woman. He knows he can be killed for doing this; he _should_ have been killed for the first time, with Ygritte.

But Satine is here, completely open and trusting, telling him things she's never told anyone. She is here, and Jon can only describe her arrival as fate. She is here, and she is his.

* * *

Jon and Satine keep the affair up for several weeks. No one suspects anything, even when she sits with him at supper, nor when, together, they watch the lads train in the courtyard. He never _asks_ her to come with him or help him with his duties, yet she still does. She says that she likes it, especially writing letters and doing the accounts. She hadn't learned to read, write or do sums up until a couple years ago, so she always loves the extra practice.

Not to mention that they're the only duties Jon has that can be done in the privacy of his solar.

As much as she loves practicing her sums and her writing, Jon knows she loves teasing him to no end even more. She'll always sneak kisses and sit on his lap, distracting him from the parchment paper in front of him. If she feels particularly cruel that day, she'll knock over something accidentally-on-purpose and bend down to retrieve it, giving Jon a perfect view of all her curves under the form-fitting dress.

Jon sorts through his letters and parcels, smiling to himself when he hears Satine softly singing. She rushes around the room in a flurry of skirts and long hair, fixing the furs on the bed one moment, and polishing his boots in the next. Ghost watches her from his place by the hearth, his red eyes darting back and forth, following the young woman.

"Having fun?" Jon teases, dipping his quill into the ink.

"Yes, although I'd appreciate it if you didn't step in so much mud." Satine wrinkles her nose and tosses one of his boots aside.

Snow shakes his head in amusement. "You like writing the letters, doing the accounts, cleaning my things…I wonder about you." He laughs when she throws the cleaning rag at him.

"It makes me feel…_wifely_."

He laughs again, his eyebrows raised. "_Wifely_?" he repeats, dropping the rag to the floor.

"Yes, _wifely_." She puts both of his boots at the foot of his bed, the black leather sparkling in the firelight. She wipes her hands on another cloth and walks up to him, then sits on the edge of his desk. "It's nice to feel part of something." She puts her arms around his neck and tilts her face up for a kiss.

"That's why I came to the Wall," he admits, planting a kiss on the tip of her nose, "to be part of something." He kisses her lips lightly, breathing in the familiar scent of her. He stops her hand when he felt her tugging at the laces of his breeches. "Not now," he murmurs, lifting her off the desk, "I have work to do." Her bare feet touch the ground and Jon finally sees how much taller he is; he'd never been the tallest- at Winterfell or at Castle Black- so it's a nice change.

"But doing the accounts is so _boring_." She pouts and stands on her tiptoes, trying to capture his lips.

He chuckles and brushes her hair away from her face. "I thought you loved doing the accounts."

She grins. "There are so many more fun things to do." She nudges him into the chair and sits in his lap, straddling him.

"I-I have to do the accounts," he protests weakly, feeling small under her heated gaze. She guides his hands under her voluminous skirts. "_Fuck_," he hisses, which makes Satine laugh. "Do you _ever _wear anything under these?"

She unlaces his breeches, a smirk on her face. "Not when we're alone." She presses open-mouthed kisses down his neck, her hands sneaking under his jerkin and tunic.

Jon decides that the accounts can wait.

* * *

He doesn't feel pain when the knives go into his back and belly. He feels numb everywhere, he feels like he's dreaming. Most of all, he feels cold. Unbearably, completely, irrevocably _cold_. He is made of ice, and each stab of the knives chips away part of him.

The snow in his face does not make him feel any colder; he is ice, and ice is as cold as it gets. The knives only feel like pins and needles now, little stings from a bug. The real pain is the cold.

He thinks of Satine. He thinks of her radiant smile, her loud laugh, the dimples in her cheeks. If he closes his eyes, he can see her, and suddenly, he's back at Winterfell again. It had been a stupid, recurring, childish fantasy, and it even follows him to death.

He sees Satine combing Arya's wild hair while talking with Sansa. Satine's belly is swollen with child and Rickon keeps pressing his ear against it, asking if the babe can hear them. Bran runs around with Summer, running like he used to, before the fall. The familiar clinging of Robb and Theon's swords echo throughout the courtyard, along with Ser Rodrik's instructions and praise. Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn smile at the scene from their place on the balcony, their arms looped together.

His clothes feel sticky from the melting snow and from his life's blood. The image of Winterfell is gone from his sight now, and all he sees is the vast landscape in front of him. He swears he can feel her trying to pull him up, can feel her hands pressing down on the open wounds to stop the bleeding. He hears her soft words in his ear, but he knows none of it is real.

It is just the madness of a dying man.

* * *

The blinding sunlight is the first thing he sees. He immediately screws his eyes closed, emitting a slight hiss. He attempts to raise his arm to cover his face, but finds himself void of any strength whatsoever. Fire burns in his throat and lungs, his tongue thick in his mouth. He tries to call out, but cannot even open his mouth.

On cue, an old man in maester's garb rushes in, carrying supplies in his thin spindly arms. He sits down next to Jon and helps him sit up. Pain courses up his spine, sharp jabs and he can't help the anguished cry that escapes his lips. The old man holds a canister of water to his lips and Jon drinks eagerly; the fire in his throat slowly eases away.

The maester is gone within a moment without another word. Jon's head is swimming; he didn't even know that the old man managed to apply ointment to the wounds and change his bandages. A faint stinging is the only hint.

A rapping at the door makes him jolt. "Lord Snow," a deep voice bellows from the other side of the door. "There's someone here to see you."

"Send them in," he croaks out. The door swings open and the guest is ushered inside.

He must still be dreaming. He must still be lying on the snow, with the men's blades buried in his back. He squeezes his hands, but they do not feel sticky with blood. _It's a very real dream, that's all_.

"I'm sorry my visit is so sudden; I asked to see you when you woke up." For the first time in his life, he sees that Satine is embarrassed. She looks vulnerable and…_scared_, even.

"Is this real?" he blurts out, clutching the furs tightly in his hands.

She laughs and approaches the bed. "As real as it can be." She brushes his damp hair away from his forehead. "You Starks are hard to kill."

"How am I still alive?"

"You have Grenn, Pyp and Ghost to thank for that." She pauses, a faint smile on her lips. "Maybe me, a bit. Although I won't take all the credit. They found you first."

"Where am I?"

"Bear Island. We thought you'd be safe here. They're still loyal to the Starks." His gaze follows her hands as they come to rest on her belly. He feels like throwing up when he notices the gown stretching over her swollen stomach.

"Did they rape you?" he demands. He finds the strength to stand up, his legs wobbling as he takes unsteady steps towards her. His hands shoot out and find purchase on her arms, gripping them to keep from falling. "After they put those knives in my back, did they take you, too? I'll kill every last one of them if they touched you, I swear."

She bites her lip, and he's not sure if she's going to laugh or cry. "My lovely boy," she whispers, bringing her hand up to stroke his curls. "Jon, the babe won't be a crow." He sees a tear fall down her cheek. "It will be a wolf. Like his father before him."

The room spins and he clutches onto her tighter. His knees tremble and he's not sure how he's still upright at this point. "T-the b-babe…" He swallows thickly. "The babe's mine?"

Satine nods, grinning through the tears. She reaches up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to his, her sweet smell and taste overwhelming him. "Run away with me, Jon Snow."

He tries to formulate a response, but only manages to splutter out, "Where to?"

"Anywhere." She kisses him again. "As long as I'm with you, I don't care."


End file.
